


Embers

by JediShadow13



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Redemption, Religion, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediShadow13/pseuds/JediShadow13
Summary: While on a journey of redemption and self discovery, Lancelot, formerly known as the Weeping Monk, stumbles upon a secluded homestead whose secretive family seems to have an intimate knowledge of the Ash Folk. He sees an opportunity to learn about his heritage and culture, one he can't afford to pass up. He can't help but wonder...Is this just a random chance encounter or a sign from God.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	Embers

**Author's Note:**

> Well...earlier in the week i started Cursed thinking it would be a good background show while i waited for season two of Umbrella Academy...and needless to say, i got sucked in. 
> 
> I would watch this show for Lancelot alone, i am a sucker for broken damaged emo bad boys. And he was like the love child of Kylo Ren and Winter Soldier (both of whom i also stan). I absolutely loved his dynamic and hints of backstory. I am really hoping this show gets renewed for another season, if for nothing else at least to learn more about Lancelot and where he comes from. 
> 
> I am with about 99% of the fandom and am shipping Nimulot, even though they haven't actually interacted yet. I like Arthur as a character, just don't think there's a lot of chemistry between him and Nimue. But the whole water/fire theme going on, i can totally see them foreshadowing an enemies-to-lovers romance which i am a complete sucker for. #reylo
> 
> I started brainstorming and this little story took on a life of its own and i just had to write it down. I have no idea if it's any good, and is probably super cliche...but sorry not sorry. 
> 
> If you are taking the time to read...i hope you enjoy :D

“Can you teach me how to dual wield?” Percival asked as they road down the country side on Goliath.

“Your arms are too scrawny…they would fall off if you tried,” Lancelot said bleakly.

“What about knife throwing?” The boy asked, “I’m very fast, they won’t see me coming.”

“Look here Perce,” Lancelot sighed, “I’m not looking for a squire, I’m just here to make sure you get back to your people in one piece.”

“We’ve been on the road for weeks now, you said we were taking a detour…you know what I think? You’re just lost and don’t know your way around a damn map.” Percival pointed out.

“I know how to read a bloody map, but these lands are still occupied by Paladins, and I don’t fancy running into them if I can help it.” Lancelot explained.

“So just slice ‘em with your swords. A dead paladin is a good paladin.” Percival noted.

Lancelot recalled one of the first nights on the road, they had stopped at a shady little inn that provided nightly housing for weary travelers. While they sat in the back of a tavern, he heard rumors about how the leader of the Paladins had been found with his head and hands both severed from his body. A grisly demise.

He was still processing how to feel about the revelation. A twisted part of him mourned the loss of his mentor…and another only regretted that he wasn’t there to watch.

“You may be right, boy….but I don’t fancy drawing that kind of attention to ourselves right now.”

* * *

Lancelot grunted silently, biting his lip as he removed the stitches from the wound on his chest. Percival was curled up on his side, snoring silently as he slept by the small fire they had started.

They had ventured off the main road, a few kilometers to the North was a fortified camp that the Red Paladins had previously stayed at. Lancelot was unsure how much had changed since Carden and Nimue’s demise.

The old man’s death would certainly have caused a blow to moral amongst the ranks, but it could also be a catalyst to unite the paladins cause and align with that of the church.

Things could easily get much worse for the Fey in the coming months. Especially with the death of the witch. Percival had been silent for over two days when word reached them of her alledged death. Apparently, no body had been recovered…and reports varied on who struck the blow or how she died.

However, It didn’t matter to him…his only focus was on the boy.

He looked over at Percival, the boy looked so peaceful when he was asleep. A vast change from the little spitfire he was when awake. How could anyone think he was hellspawn, or demon born? How could he himself have ever thought that.

The reason he felt such a strong bond with Percival is because he was reminded of himself. Or rather the boy he could have been if he had never been taken.

He barely remembered anything about who or what he was before the Paladins took him. He must have been around six when his village was ransacked. He had forgotten so much, and no matter how hard he tried to remember…nothing came to him.

It was like it never existed.

He just wished he had some answers. He felt like he was being tugged in opposite directions by two separate forces. The paladin side who had done nothing but lie to him for over twenty years, and his fey side which he subconsciously feared and hated. His back bore countless scars from the times he had whipped himself in despair and suffering.

He had been more open about it in the last few weeks since traveling with Percival. But two decades of brainwashing could not be so easily unwound. Lancelot didn’t know if he would ever fully recover.

Even if he was to fully embrace his true nature, it’s not like he had anywhere to go. He had mercilessly killed hundreds of Fey over the years. He doubted the Fey people would be as accepting of him as Gawain led him to believe.

He was at war with the two sides of himself, and he had no clue how to deal with it.

Praying had never worked for him in the past, maybe this was just something he had to sort out on his own.

* * *

"How is it you're doing that?" Percival asked looking down at Lancelot's hand, which had turned into a color matching the bark on the tree.

“It’s not something I control,” Lancelot explained as he watched his hand turn back to normal when he removed it from the tree, “it’s like a reflex. It only happens when I sense danger.”

Earlier, Lancelot had heard voices in the distance, and spied two paladin scouts on the opposite side of the river. He had grabbed Percival, tucked the boy behind him, and hid behind a giant oak tree waiting for the men to pass. While he was waiting, his body had camouflaged itself. 

“Wicked,” Percival said in wonder. “I’ve never met any other Fey who can do that.”

“I think it was limited to my people…you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Ash Folk would you?” Lancelot asked.

He was an expert in tracking Fey, he had studied the different clans and what each one specialized in. What gods they worshiped, what food they ate, what kind of clothes they wore. But he had never heard of the Ash Clan until the Green Knight mentioned it.

He searched his memories and nothing came to him.

“Legends say they were one of the four founding clans representing the four elements of nature. The Sky folk represented air, the Sea Folk represented water, the Wood Folk represented Earth, and the Ash Folk represented Fire.” Percival explained, as if reciting from a history book. 

Lancelot was so lost in thought that, dwelling on what everything meant…that he didn’t notice they were being followed until he heard the sound of a bow being drawn taut.

He spun around with his hand on his sword, but their stalker was a good distance out of range. It was just a farm hand. A boy who couldn't have been older than 16. 

“Oi, hands up where I can see ‘em!” The farm boy shouted in the distance as he drew his bow and pointed it at the trespassers.

Lancelot sighed as he did what the teenager said and put his hands up, taking a deep breath. He furrowed his brow at the peculiar scent he took in. There was something…off, about the farm hand. There was a very faint trace of Fey in the area. But it couldn’t be coming from the boy…his scent would’ve been much stronger at this range.

“These are private lands, traveler.” The teenager explained as he walked closer to them. “You best leave the way you came.”

“Very well,” Lancelot growled as he took up Goliath’s reins. He looked up at the farm boy, meeting his eyes for the first time, “We meant no trouble.”

Suddenly, the farm boy gasped and looked taken aback. Cocking his head as he got a good look at Lancelot’s face, studying him.

“Those markings…” He said in awe as he slowly lowered his bow.

The farm hand probably recognized him as the Weeping Monk. Lancelot cursed under his breath, trying to think of a way out of this without bringing harm to the boy or Percival.

“You’re Ash Fey aren’t you.” The farm boy said, pointing a finger to the wine colored tear shaped marks.

“What do you know about the Ash Folk?” Lancelot asked warily.

“It’s a long story…” The boy shrugged, “You best come inside, my father will explain everything.”

The farm hand then turned around and waived for them to follow him.

* * *

Lancelot and Percival sat down at the kitchen table, while the owner of the farm began to prepare dinner.

His third son, Thomas, had excitedly brought them into the house. Telling his father how he had a surprise for him.

The father took one look at Lancelot, sighed and gestured for him and Percival to sit down and make themselves comfortable.

He was an older man, with slightly greying red hair and a well groomed beard. He was tending to the fire in the kitchen. A cauldron of soup heating up over the fire. Lancelot could scent the fey blood resonating from the family, it was stronger in the father than in the sons. They must have been part human….they definitely weren’t full blooded Fey.

That must have been why he didn’t scent the farm boy until he had gotten the drop on him. It was diluted, like a single drop of water in the whole barrel. While demi-fey were rare, they were not completely unheard of. Mostly, the species just didn’t like to mix. The humans were prejudice and the Fey untrusting. Made for an ill-fated attempt at romance. 

“Thomas, you and your brothers go finish your chores before supper. And find your sister, I would like to speak with her.” The father instructed to his sons.

After the door closed, the man turned to his two guests. “I haven’t seen another Ash Fey in over 20 years, son. What brings you to these parts?”

“It’s a rather long story.” Lancelot whispered.

“Well, stay for dinner. We have time…what’s your name lad?” The farmer asked as he began to ladle some soup into the bowls.

“The boy is Percival.” He said after a deep breath. “And my name is Lancelot.”

The farmers head shot up in alarm. “Lancelot? Are you Ban’s boy?”

“I don’t know…there’s very little I remember from those days.” Lancelot answered honestly, it had been so long since he had been taken from his birth family by Father Carden. Since the paladin raiders had conquered his village and burned his home to the ground. Since the last time he used his birth name.

He vaguely remembered his parents, he didn’t recall their faces or their names, it had been like they had been carved from his mind. Almost completely erased. Decades of indoctrination and brainwashing by the Red Paladins had left him a ghost, and only recently had he begun to rediscover himself, his true self…not what they wanted him to be.

The Green Knight had planted that first little seedling of doubt, in between the brutal torture sessions with Salt, Gawain had called him brother. And looked at him as if he were actually a living being instead of a tool of destruction.

Little Percival had watered that seed, when he had been beaten down by the Pope’s trinity guard, the boy had stood up to them with no fear. Surely realizing it would be a brutal end for him. Lancelot could not remember when the Paladin’s had ever fought for him, or anyone for that matter. Only that zealous obsession with their twisted image of God.

He was only eight when they had branded that small cross into his scalp. Forever burdening him with a path he was forced upon. It was never his choice. In the past few weeks he had been attempting to hide that mark, he let the shaved sections grow out and he slicked his hair back when he tied it together. Effectively covering it.

But he still felt it there, always burning.

Lancelot looked up, breaking himself out of his dark thoughts. Ban…that was the name this farmer mentioned. It echoed in his mind, there was something familiar about it. Was that the name of his true father? And what of his mother?

“Can you tell me about him?” Lancelot asked.

The man nodded, “Ban was my cousin. His mother and my father were siblings. My father married a human woman and moved out of the Ash lands here to Britannia to start a family with her. I was their only child, and although I lack the markings of the Ash Folk I possess some of their abilities.”

He reached over and touched a petal of a flower in a vase, his finger slowly turning a shade of lavender that matched the plant.

“Every couple of years I would travel to the Ash lands for the summer seasons with my father, to visit his side of the family. I became close with Ban and his wife Elaine.”

Elaine…he felt warmth pass through him at the name.

“What’s your name then?” Lancelot asked.

“Meliodas.” The man bowed slightly.

A few moments later the cottage door swung open, and a young woman in her early twenties walked through. Her red hair was in two braids, out of her face. Immediately, Lancelot noticed the two dark red markings decorating her face. It was as if someone had smeared ink on her bottom eyelid, and then at the very outer corner it began to ripple straight down until they were in line with her lip.

“This is my daughter, Tristan.” Meliodas introduced. Tristan gave a bright smile before she closed the door behind her. “I have five children, four sons and only my daughter inherited the red tears of the Ash Folk.”

Lancelot thought back to what Gawain had said, “I heard on good authority that no Ash Folk had been seen in Britannia for centuries.”

“We are few, I haven’t seen any others in decades. If there are survivors, I assume they are well hidden in the motherland…the Ash Folk always excelled at blending in and adapting.” Meliodas explained. “I doubt any would have ventured this far across the sea...especially with the actions of the church of late.”

“Why not?” Lancelot asked.

“The Ash Folk are fire walkers…they don’t ferry well in the water.”

They talked for what seemed like hours, as Meliodas explained their culture to Lancelot. How the Ash Folk were fire wielders long ago, when magic still thrived across the land. Before the Catholic purges, there were random clans spread throughout Europe, but they were mainly found in the lands of Ireland.

“What clan are you from, child?” Meliodas asked Percival, taking a break from a history lesson on the Ash Folk.

The boy looked up before answering, “the Sky Folk.”

Meliodas and Tristan went silent, looking down in sorrow.

“My condolences, we have heard about the pillaging throughout the country. You both are welcome to stay here for as long as you need before continuing your journey.”

Lancelot thanked Meliodas for the hospitality, all the while dwelling on what exactly his journey was…and where he was supposed to go next.

* * *

The following day, Percival took to archery training with Meliodas’ youngest son Timothy in the fields. Lancelot went with his cousin Tristan to go hunting.

“You look as Fey as I do, and yet I can barely scent you.” Lancelot pondered as Tristan began to lay a snare.

“Probably because I’m demi-fey. I am mainly human. I only have a quarter fey blood in my veins through my grandfather, somehow though I inherited his looks and abilities…even more than my own father who is half-blood.” She explained.

“What of your mother, did she know?” He asked.

“She did…a plague took her from us two years ago, but I’m told that even when I came out of her with tattoos on my face she loved me as much as my brothers.”

“Not many would be as compassionate as her.” Lancelot said somberly.

“For that I am truly blessed.” Tristan smiled as she absentmindedly caressed the necklace at her throat.

“You’re a believer?” Lancelot asked, looking at the small metal cross hanging from her neck.

“It was my mother’s…I wear it more out of habit than anything, but yeah…I guess I am. I believe in a higher power. That there is more out there than just this life. And I believe we all have a reason we were put here in this world and a part to play. What about you?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Lancelot sighed, he could almost feel the burn on the back of his head. Where the brand was seared into his flesh.

“Faith was very important to my mother…she felt she had a deep connection with God…and yet, she never could understand the hypocrisy behind the Catholic Church. How they use their scripture to defend the countless acts of violence they inflict on non-believers and non-humans. She never understood how one could spread such hate in God’s name. She believed that God was compassionate above all else. And loved Men and Fey equally. It is not our place to pass judgement.”

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

Lancelot looked down at his hands, not wanting to look her in the eye.

“I’ve heard about you, you know. The Weeping Monk.” Tristan admitted.

“Then why are you sitting here beside me, making idle conversation. You know the things I’ve done, the sin’s I’ve committed.” Lancelot spat out, not looking up.

“I don’t know much about our family’s clan. But from what my father told me, their entire village was pillaged and burned over 20 years ago. Ban and Elaine were both crucified to set an example for the other villagers who were put to death over the next few days. But their son was never found. Their only child, Lancelot. The lost Prince.”

Lancelot frowned and looked back to the crackling fire. He crossed his arms and rested them on his knees. He’d learned more about his birth family in the past two days than he had in the last twenty years. It was like a heavy weight pressing down on him. Too much to handle.

“And I’m sure they would be thrilled at who their son grew up to be.” He said sarcastically. Fey killer, murderer.

“All those things you’ve done, those sins you’ve committed. Did you do them because you believed in them or because someone told you to. That somehow it was God’s will to purge the lands of the Fey?”

“I never took pleasure from it.” Lancelot admitted.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Did it feel righteous? Before, during, after…anytime at all?”

Lancelot shook his head, “No…it felt wrong.”

When he was newly indoctrinated into the Red Paladins, he had confided in Father Carden after his first raid. He had told the Father that it felt wrong, not of God’s will, barbaric. Carden had given him twenty lashes that day. Screamed at him that those feelings of guilt were the devil’s work. That it was his demonic nature fighting against the will of God.

After that incident he never spoke of it again, however the feelings of torment never went away. Never lessened, he just learned to bury it. Like a coward.

“Sounds to me like you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

“We always have a choice.” He said despondently.

“So, what’s yours going to be moving forward?” Tristan pressed.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

* * *

_He was drowning._

_He was at the bottom of a lake drowning, and his chest hurt…as if he had been stabbed._

_He was going to die, and no one was going to be able to save him._

_He had failed his people, he had failed the fey, he had failed his friends, and the one he had loved._

_What a pathetic end this would be._

_What was supposed to be a beginning had quickly turned into an ending. And he was trapped in a watery grave, alone._

_Forever._

_…_

_Save her._

…

Lancelot shot up from bed, gasping for air. His skin was clammy from sweat. He took deep breaths as his heart rate began to slow down. He looked down and his both his hands up to his forearm were camouflaged red, the color of the bed sheets.

He took another deep breath and willed his skin to turn back to normal, the red slowly inching back down.

It was just a bad dream.

Or was it something more.

As he laid back down on the cot, his mind began to wonder. He didn’t think it was him drowning at the bottom of the lake…it was someone else.

The Witch.

* * *

“I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me and the boy.” Lancelot told Meliodas as he began to pack up his belongings.

“You’re family, son. You will always have a place at my table.” The old man said warmly as he put his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, and gave a friendly squeeze. “Just promise me that’ll you’ll keep an eye on my daughter.”

That morning, Tristan had declared her intention to join Lancelot and Percival on their quest. Her father had sighed, but not objected. She had the heart of a warrior, and she needed to stretch her wings.

“By the way I have something for you before you go.” Meliodas said as he walked towards the hallway and reached for the attic door. “It was your father’s.”

* * *

“So…” Tristan pondered as she took in Lancelot’s new traveling gear. He wore a new hooded dark cloak with a loose leather tunic underneath. “You traded black for black?”

He rolled his eyes and looked over at Tristan who was preparing her own horse. “Are you sure you want to come with us, it’s going to be dangerous traveling with me.”

“Come now Lance, I’m ready for an adventure.” Tristan smiled widely, “I want to help you. I think I’m one of the few who can. And besides, my father was eager for me to come along…just so I can keep an eye on you.”

Lancelot scoffed, “Well then, go get the boy…we’ll leave shortly. There’s just something I need to do first.”

He grabbed the sack bag from Goliath’s back and retrieved his old weapons and walked towards the edge of the homestead where a river ran through.

He walked until he was on the bridge overlooking the river. His paladin black armor and robes were folded neatly and stuffed into a drawstring sack. In his other hand he had his sword and dagger. With the sigil of the Paladins inscribed in the pommel. His weapons of war…as the Weeping Monk.

He took a deep breath before he dropped them both into the peaceful water below him, watching them sink. Ending one miserable chapter of his life.

He grabbed his new blade from his hip, the one that had belonged to his father Ban, that Meliodas had been holding onto for safe keeping.

It was a dark steel long sword. With the symbol of fire engraved in the hilt. Caliburn was it’s name.

The Sword of Fire. A symbol of the Ash Folk.

His people might be gone, hunted to the point of extinction. But he remained. Like the embers of a fire…just waiting to be reignited.

He knew what his path was. He was to help bring his people to freedom. The Fey. And if they were to cast him out or execute him, he would accept that punishment. It would be a fair judgement after the pain he had caused them over the last several years.

His first objective was to find the fey girl, he didn’t know if it was a sign from God, or a warning from the pagan gods, or just a gut feeling…but she was in danger. She was near death in the bottom of a lake, unable to die. And she needed his help.

He would find her.

He would free her.

He would help her.

“Come along, Percival.” He called out as he sheathed his blade and headed towards Tristan, the boy, and the horses.

“Where are we going?” Percival asked.

“To find your friend, the Wolf-Blood Witch.” He explained as he hopped up on Goliath, “To find the Lady of the Lake.”

**Author's Note:**

> So i know it would be a cop out for him to find another Ash Fey (after Gawain insinuated that there are few of the left) so quickly. Not only that but to have them be relatives. But for the sake of plot...i made it happen, and also so i could bring Tristan into it. An OC, whose not really an OC. 
> 
> If there's any GoT fans out there, Tristan's faith is kind of like Brother Ray (The friend of the Hound who was killed). The Red Paladin's reminded me a lot of the Sparrows, just more overly brutal. Not a harsh criticism, but in Cursed i feel like all the christian figures were portrayed as overly evil. It be nice to see some be morally grey, or actually disagree with what the Catholic Church is doing. 
> 
> Also, in 'real life' i think Lancelot would make it a priority to get Squirrel back to the Fey, but they were kind of dawdling. 
> 
> Not gonna lie, i took some hints from the manga/anime Seven Deadly Sins for the lore of Lancelot's parents. 
> 
> Kind of left it open ended, but as of right now this'll just be a one shot.


End file.
